


Enjoy with Butter and Syrup

by notunbroken



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 10:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15046523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notunbroken/pseuds/notunbroken
Summary: Sharon reflects on the responsibilities of parenthood, aided by the memory of a dog named Waffles. [Based on a Tumblr prompt, 'I wish you would write a fic where Sharon admits something she's not proud of to Andy.']





	Enjoy with Butter and Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> This is the relatively unpolished result of a two- or three-hour writing blitz. Forgive the comma happiness.

While waiting for the Christmas roast to cook, Andy produces their newly delivered wedding photos for his step-children to review. Emily emits a series of delighted shrieks, which her brothers unflinchingly parrot. But some comment traded between the kids leaves Ricky digging a navy-bound album from the bottom drawer of Sharon’s desk. This is the risk of family togetherness, she figures; the process of making new memories tend to pull old ones from the depths. 

After the five of them finish eating, Ricky unfolds the thick binder — a tome documenting his childhood in snapshot glimpses — onto the table. Sharon makes herself scarce once he flips into his own fourth year, opting to handle clean-up rather than revisit the uglier memories that lie between her son’s toothy smiles.

For their parts, the kids point and chuckle in various places, limiting their sharp commentary to the display of early 90s fashion and a series of Sharon’s ill-considered haircuts. Emily and Ricky explain various scenes to Rusty and Andy; birthday parties, school plays, summer camps, a trip back east that left Ricky with a broken collarbone and a long-held fear of diving boards. The more recently acquired half of Sharon’s family watch with wistful smiles as they’re read into a history they’ll never share.  

With this in mind, Sharon is about to suggest a diversion — a card game, football, whatever. But Ricky calls to her, his brow furrowed. “Mom, why aren’t there any pictures of Waffles in here?”

_ As if this couldn’t get any worse _ , she thinks.

Behind him, Andy’s face twists into an expression of poorly smothered humor. “You’re looking for breakfast memories in the family photo album?”

Over the skillet she finds sudden reason to scrub, Sharon says, “Waffles was a golden retriever we had when the kids were little.” She hopes the breezy, distracted explanation masks her tension at the subject.

Thankfully, Emily picks up the thread, with a dry observation: “Ricky named him, if you can believe it.”

“He was a good dog.” Ricky goes nostalgic. “Better than his namesake, even.”

Rusty delivers an expert crack. “That’s saying a  _ lot _ , coming from you.”

The exchange devolves into a good-natured bickering that allows Sharon to believe she’s escaped the dog topic. Her relief lasts right up until Andy caries another stack of dishes into the kitchen. After depositing them above the dishwasher, he reaches into the cupboard next to the sink. This maneuver not only allows him to grab a glass, it places him in a perfect position to mutter, “So what’s the story with ol’ Waffles?”

_ Of course he’d noticed. Of course. _

Sharon spares a glance toward her kids, who are still occupied with trading barbs across the table. She answers on her way to the fridge, “What do you mean?”

“I  _ mean _ ,” he says, “it seemed like you were glossing over something, just now.”

When she finally meets his eyes, she finds them glinting with mischief. “This isn’t the time, Andy.”

He grins, no doubt realizing he’s hit a bullseye. “Oh, now I gotta know—”

Ricky’s voice breaks through his gloating. The kids have migrated from the table and onto the couch. “Mom, we’re starting a movie,” he calls.

“Okay, honey.” Sharon peers around Andy to answer. When she straightens, it’s to find him fixing her with a raised brow, a silent reiteration of his question. 

“I’m serious,” she says, turning to unwrap a bag of microwave popcorn that no one asked for.

“Alright,” Andy concedes, no less victorious as he backs from the kitchen. “We’ll come back to it later.”

Once the scent of salt and butter floats through the air, Sharon joins the rest of her family in the living room. With the kids filling up the couch, Andy has constructed a nestlike assemblage of cushions, pillows, and blankets at the foot of the nearest orange chair. She spares a moment to consider the obvious lack of parental respect in this equation.

Ricky catches her eye. “Guess what, Mom?”

Sharon hums a question as she deposits a bowl of popcorn amidst the kids.

“We rented  _ Homeward Bound  _ on Amazon!” he answers. “I thought we’d pick an old favorite, since we’re taking a trip down memory lane and all.”

“I think we literally wore out our tape of this movie,” Emily says, not incorrectly.

“My kids loved it too,” Andy says, wearing a troublemaking smile. “It’s a  _ great  _ dog story.”

“Hell yeah,” Ricky says, propping his feet on the coffee table as he starts the movie. “The world’s going to shit and I need a hit of positivity.”

Rusty reads the screen with a grimace. “This came out before I was born.”

“Oh, so did almost everything else worth watching,” Ricky shoots back.

“So mean,” Emily giggles as she reaches over to ruffle Rusty’s hair. “Don’t listen to him.”

Meanwhile, as she settles in next to Andy, Sharon whispers, “Were you involved in this choice?”

“Nope,” he says, staring at the TV. “It’s just nostalgia working its way out.”

The night is, on the whole, filled with a heartwarming togetherness that Sharon will probably reflect on fondly. As far as holidays go, it’s as wonderfully low-key as it gets. Even the movie is fine. It unearths memories, as promised: a trip to their suburban drive-in of choice, now long-demolished; snuggling with a chicken-poxed Ricky daubed in calamine; countless Friday nights spent on the couch of their old house, splitting homemade pizzas while Sharon pretended everything was normal. 

She would relish this memory-in-the-making even more, given the comparative lack of misery and the addition of two incredible men. But every big moment involving the old dog, Shadow, leaves Andy nudging her thigh. She resorts to tossing unpopped kernels at him in retaliation, which only makes him laugh. 

Eventually, Ricky calls them out with a grumbled, “Down in front, children.”

After the credits roll, Sharon takes her time seeing Emily off and making sure Ricky has everything he needs to comfortably sleep on the couch. She even pops in on Rusty to say goodnight. But what she’d claim as solid parenting is motivated, at least in part, by the likelihood, increasing by the minute, that her husband will fall fast asleep in their bedroom.

Instead, she opens the door to find Andy flopped onto the bed, wearing a smug grin with his pajamas. “So.” He folds his hands behind his head. “You ready to tell me about Waffles?”

“You’re ridiculous,” she throws out on her way into the closet.

His voice carries through the doorway as she changes. “I’m just trying to figure out what could warrant this kind of secrecy. Must be bad.”

Sharon pokes her head out to glare at him. “Will you keep it down?”

He holds his hands up in surrender and stays silent until she emerges in her nightgown. More quietly, he resumes his train of thought. “Then again, the kids don’t seem to be traumatized, so that’s a good thing. 

“This is getting a little out of hand, don’t you think?” She doesn’t look up from rubbing lotion into her hands. 

“What I  _ think _ is I’ve never seen you dodge a question like this, babe. Not even about Kevin-whatshisname of Saint Ignatius cross-country fame.”

“Colin Cavanaugh,” she corrects with a sigh as she slips her rings back onto her finger. “I still don’t understand why you were so interested in hearing how I lost my virginity.”

“And, even now, you’re trying to deflect.” 

She pulls the covers from under her pillow. “I’m not.” 

Following some wide-eyed realization, Andy winces. “Did you...take Waffles to the farm?”

“What?” She blinks at him. “No!”

“I mean, I’d understand, if you did.” He sniffs. “ _ I guess _ .”

Andy is a certified dog lover. To marry him was to accept they’ll end up with at least one canine adoptee once he retires. He would in no way  _ forgive  _ her for having shuffled a retriever — the most sympathetic of dogs — off the mortal coil.

“I didn’t—” Becoming aware of her increased volume, she sinks onto the bed and whispers. “I didn’t take Waffles to the farm, in  _ any _ sense of that phrase. He died of cancer when he was 11, with Ricky lying next to him on the bathroom floor.”

“Okay,” he drawls, “so what gives?”

Sharon sighs and pulls her glasses from her nose, taking a moment on the razor edge between revelation and concealment. Is she really letting him extort one of the few secrets she’d kept from her kids through the years?

_ Yes, yes I am _ . He’s nothing if not a dogged interrogator, after all, and he has a long memory to match. He’ll be harping on it for weeks if she doesn’t relent.

She presses her fingers against her eyelids before saying, “I am the  _ only _ person who knows the truth about Waffles.”

Andy scoffs, “I’m your  _ husband _ ,” as if this fact alone justifies his inquiry.

“You’re a storyteller,” she retorts. “I don’t want you trotting this out at a family gathering ten years down the line.” She adds, “Not even at a gathering of  _ your _ family.”

“Hand to God, I will keep your secret as long as I keep my mind.”

She swats at him. “Don’t joke about that.”

“I’m not joking,” he says on a chuckle. “I’m just saying...your secret’s safe with me.” He relaxes back into his pillow. “C’mon, Sharon. You’ll feel better, getting it off your chest.”

He has a point.

She slides under the covers and leans against the headboard. “ _ Waffles _ ,” she begins on a sigh, “was a surprise from Jack to the kids. Out of the blue. I went to bed one night without a dog, woke up with a  _ lot _ of dog.” Even as she shakes her head, a smile blooms over her face. “Ricky fell in love with him immediately, of course, named him after his favorite thing in the world. He was five years old and had suddenly found his best friend.”

“But,” her heavy mood returns, “about three months after that, one of Jack’s poker friends came by the house after the kids had left for school. Joe Stanmore.” The visit comes back to her, clear as day. “Waffles’ name, as it turns out, was Riley. And he was  _ not _ our dog. He was the Stanmores’ dog. Jack had taken him as collateral for a loan.”

“Ah, shit.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” her voice cuts. “Joe had paid the money back, but Jack was...not around. So he showed up to beg me for Riley directly. He had these pictures his three kids had drawn of themselves with the dog.” She lifts a shoulder. “What could I do? I handed Riley over, just...sick to my stomach.”

Of the many things for which Sharon will never forgive Jack, Waffles ranks near the top of the list. Right under the emptied bank accounts and repeated disappearing acts. 

The kids  _ adored _ that dog. Then he was gone. Kind of like their father.

“From there, I should’ve told Ricky and Emily the truth.” Shaking her head, she stares at the outline of her feet beneath the covers. “But...it was a rough time. They were missing enough, at that point. I couldn’t ask them to handle the disappearance of their dog, too.”

Andy’s thumb rubs along her knee. “So what’d you do?”

“I called in sick — royally pissing off my partner, by the way — and drove to five different shelters looking for a youngish, male golden retriever.”

“You found one?”

“Barely. The Humane Society out in Santa Monica had  _ just _ received a golden. He was younger than Waffles — or, Riley, I guess. He wasn’t fixed, and they weren’t ready to adopt him out, but I begged and pleaded,” she nods, “and  _ cried _ , until they gave in.” 

“And so you saved the day.”

“Well,” Sharon looks over at Andy, finding his earlier smugness drained away. “They both realized something was different, as soon as they got home. ‘What’s wrong with Waffles?’ He didn’t look exactly the same, of course, and he definitely didn’t answer to ‘Waffles.’” She shrugs. “All I could think to do was tell them he was fine. And, eventually, he was. Eventually he  _ became  _ Waffles.” 

After a long moment of silence, he says, “So you gaslit your kids, over their dog, is what I’m hearing.”

Her voice climbs several notches. “What the hell was I supposed to do?” 

Andy shushes her through a laugh. When he’s recovered, he says, “No, I mean, that was probably the best option. I just can’t believe you’ve managed to keep it a secret all these years.”

Settling onto her back, she says, “I let them keep the happiness they had.” 

And that’s the truth. Her hardest battle as a parent was knowing when to show Emily and Ricky glimpses of the ugly world and when to allow them their blissful ignorance. The secret of Waffles was about as blissful as it got.

With a tug of the chain on the bedside lamp, she drops the room into darkness. Andy curls around her side, draping his arm over her waist. His breaths fall into an even pattern before he says, “Hey, babe?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re an  _ incredible _ mom. No one can shame you for that.”

Sharon smiles into the night.


End file.
